Hovering, hovering on a spot,
Circling a singular, familiar target.
He’s spoilt for choice,
Yet, He buzzes around this same,
Non-shiny target, strafing endlessly.
Red-hot metals pouring down,
Shrapnel flying around.
He rains down crater creators,
Imaginary black holes forming in his head.
Frantic, close to apprehensive,
He shoots endlessly
But mostly, without solid aim.
Up in the comfort of his worn leather seat
On an aircraft not dully fit for flying,
Strapped-in ever so tightly,
he sees ruins, dust rising.
He grins a satisfactory grin
And marvels at the destruction;
Until the dust clears,
And the realisation shocks him.
The target stands, in place!
It stands, still!!
Defiance written all over it,
An infuriating defiance,
Quickly turning into a daring dare;
Urging him to try again,
Drop again, rain again!
This time strafing with crazed vigour!
He is supposed to be the bully,
“Bully the targets into submission and destruction.”
Those words ring so loudly in his ears,
And as always,
He is supposed to be winning.
He continues strafing,
But this time, hovering just a little too low!
In his ire and rage,
Amplified by his battered ego,
The basics elude him.
He forgets the prime rule-
NEVER GET TOO CLOSE!
His wounded pride gets the better of him,
He loses the plot and plunges;
Down and out into one of his own craters.
It has been a leaded decoy all along,
Deflecting his bullets and missiles.
Making him look stupid and incompetent.
He gains a forlorn closure-
That indeed, there was foul play,
That this target would never have stood,
Never have withstood his assault;
Everything being equal.
Of course he always gets the job done;
And even at this cost
Of a burning and bleeding chest,
Even in this dying moments,
He prides himself
As the indomitable target destroyer.
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